


Counting Fingers

by SabineElectricHeart (TheLifeAndLiesOfFerns)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Family, Fluff, Loneliness, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29348937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeAndLiesOfFerns/pseuds/SabineElectricHeart
Summary: Dimitri cannot fathom how the tiny fingers of his son’s will ever be able to hold a sword, so he swears himself a vow. One he keeps over the years.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Original Child Character(s), Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	Counting Fingers

As the sun breaks the dark skies of a harsh winter night, Dimitri could not quite believe how small the fingers and toes of new-born babies actually were.

Ten little fingers. Ten tiny toes.

He looks at his own hands, large and calloused from the years of training, hunting and war. He has trouble believing that his hand has ever been so small, he could not fathom how such fragile limbs would ever be able to hold onto swords and lances.

The king of Faerghus has become also a father, and such a title was bringing such anxiety he had not remember feeling for many moons. He had no-one to confide or help him dealing with such strange territory, as both him and his wife were orphans, his friends are yet to take the plunge towards family life and the nobility was strife with tales of terrible parenting with horrible consequences.

He would pace around the room to try to relieve his mind of such a burdensome fixation, but it has been a long night and he could not support the weight of his own large body. Besides, he had done it for hours to no avail.

It was while the blond man stared emptily at the warm crib in front of him that something magical came to pass. The tiny green-haired, blue-eyed baby stared dead ahead into his father’s eyes and reached to him. As a whole hand of tiny fingers wrapped around one of hiss, Dimitri made a silent vow.

This vow he made as he glanced between his new-born son and his wife, sleeping peacefully after an intense delivery. This vow he made to remind himself of the importance of family.

The ten fingers and ten toes of his new-born son would never once experience the level of pain he had. His son would never go through the emotional torment of never knowing his parents. His son would never experience true loneliness.

While this boy cannot hold a sword in his feeble hands, be a day or the rest of eternity, his father will raise his own on his defence, and so the Goddess smite him if he ever goes back on his word.

Dimitri made the vow in utter silence, sealing it with a kiss to his son’s head. As if in response to the promise made, his son squeezes his father’s finger, gripping it with all the strength in one of his tiny hands.

Ten fingers, ten toes. All perfect, and all there.

* * *

It is a huff and a cry that follows that has Dimitri rushing from the stables into the large courtyard that separates the horses from the main halls of their home, which had a large tree where the children of the estate usually learn climbing, himself included when he was that age.

Despite knowing full well that such happenings were the facts of life and that it does not hurt that much to fall from one of those branches, the monarch’s heart stops at the sight of his son sprawled on the floor, fat tears running down his face more from shock than pain.

Those tragedies must only happen in Spring, when the Goddess cannot protect the lands of Fódlan, the blond is sure. He brushes his son down, checking for any major injuries as he does so.

The fatherly heart returns to a normal beating rhythm once he realises that Lambert is entirely uninjured, suffering shock more than anything.

“How many fingers, Lambert?” Dimitri asks, reaching out brush the tears away from his son’s chubby face.

“Ten.” The boy responded on a hiccup.

“How many toes?” The man asks once more.

“Ten.” Came the predicted response, now without being broken in the middle with the throat spasm.

Dimitri kisses his son’s verdant hair. “Ten fingers and ten toes. It all seems in perfect order to me. Do you feel any better?”

Lambert nods, wiping away the last of his tears and smiling shakily up at his father. Dimitri smiles back at his son, lifting him under the arms and settling him on his hip.

“I think we have had enough of the outside for now. We ought to catch something on this wind.” Dimitri comments softly. “Will you help me prepare the tea, Lambert? Your mother must be arriving soon, and I am sure she would appreciate having a hot beverage and a pastry to chase away the cold.”

It was difficult to raise a child when the love of his life spent six moons with them, three in Fhirdiad and three in Garreg Mach, and six moons away, caring for the Church and souls of their realm. However, Dimitri knows he prefers six moons to no moon at all, and the Archbishop had plenty of admirers who would be more than happy to have any moon they could get.

Lambert nods once more, tucking his small head into the crook of his father’s neck. The man chuckles softly, heading back inside and sneaking through the large corridors onwards to the Royal Apartments, where he settles his son on a chair by the table.

“What should we brew, Lambert?” The blond asks. “Chamomile or apple and cinnamon?”

“Chamomile!” His son shouts, a smile on his face as Dimitri prepares the flowers, boils the water and sets up the fancy porcelain cups in their due places.

When the Archbishop finally arrives from the long trip from the centre of the realm, pressing a lingering kiss to Dimitri’s cheek before dropping a kiss to Lambert’ head, the father was explaining to the child how good tea and good company fostered lasting relations.

“What’s happening here?” The religious woman asks, good-humoured.

“We’re having a tea party, Mama!”

She laughs. “I can see that. What are we having?”

“Chamomile tea and honey pastries.” Dimitri states.

“Naturally.” She counters, while picking up their son and setting him back on her lap, as she helps him with his cup and cutlery.

Dimitri watches you with a warm smile, thinking back to his younger years. He thinks back to the dark years when he did not know whether he would make it through the winter, never mind make it to having a family. To the times he was lost to his own nefarious thoughts.

The rich laughter of his son brings the king back from his memories, fetches him back from the precipice in which he found himself teetering. He lets himself have his small panic and he lets himself fall prey to the anxiety that has unfurled in his gut, but he only lets it keep hold of him for the amount of time it takes him to count the fingers and toes on his son.

Ten fingers, ten toes. Dimitri’s mind calms and his smile returns to his face.

_Ten fingers, ten toes. All will be well._

* * *

Dimitri lurches upright. A hand is brought to his throat as he drags in air; his mind rattled and his body shaking.

It had felt so real. It had been real. He had experienced such nightmares before, during the five years that the Crest of Flames had been missing and presumed dead, but now, knowing he had much more to lose, it felt even more terrifying.

He glances over to the empty right side of his marital bed. The Wyvern Moon was high in the sky and the king had been forced to return to Fhirdiad, as to oversee the harvests and preparations for the harsh wintertime to come.

Alas, if reality does not provide, the man’s memories are ready to jump into action. If his wife were here with him, he would see a hand outstretched towards him even in sleep. His eyes run over the imaginary figure; watching it sleeping form rise and fall as breath leaves its metaphysical body.

Dimitri sighs, feeling the loneliness grip into his battered heart. The silver wedding encrusted band on his left hand signally a happy future from the nightmare he had found himself in, regardless of the hurdles that practical reality imposes upon the man.

The monarch presses a kiss to the most precious piece of jewellery in his possession, brushing the thick covers from his body before leaving the too large of a bed.

He shives against the cold air of the autumnal night; the landing freezing as Dimitri sits at the doorstep of his chambers, hanging his head in his hands.

When his former professor returned from her long slumber, she might have managed to silence the voices on his head, but they did not go away, merely transformed what once was a shout into a thin whisper. Yet, even that is hard to ignore on the long months he is alone.

As a result, Dimitri spends most nights having to repress the urge to stand guard by the front door, lance at the ready for whomever should come crashing through posing a threat to his wife and his son.

Lambert stands by his own nursery door; his stuffed animal hanging from his still too weak of a hand as Dimitri tries to settle his breathing and heartbeat.

“Daddy?” He asks, voice quiet yet ringing through the silent house.

“Lambert.” Dimitri says, a hand reaching for his son.

Lambert goes into his arms willingly, yawning tiredly as he settles his head against his father’s shoulder. Lambert does not say a lot, even this young he knows that his father struggles to sleep on some nights. The boy forgot how many times he had found the man asleep on some odd surface throughout the castle, as it happens more often than not. Fortunately for his father, a blanket is often thrown haphazardly over his body by one of the early-rising maids or guards.

“How many fingers?” Lambert asks, stumbling over the harder sounds in the words.

Dimitri swivels to face his son; the question being the last thing he expected. “Ten, Lambert.”

“How many toes?” Lambert follows, kicking his feet in the air for emphasis.

The weight on Dimitri’s chest feels lighter as he answers his son, “Ten, Lambert.”

Ten fingers, ten toes, Lambert reminds Dimitri, ten fingers, ten toes, and all will be well. As long as we have all ten fingers and all ten toes, we can do just about anything, even if it is defeating the terrors that haunt us at night.

* * *

The very same vow is made when Princess Arabella of Blayyid makes her grand entrance into the world on a sunny Lone Moon morning. Dimitri felt sure that he had the same awe-filled expression on his face from when he first held Lambert.

On the barren lands of Faerghus, every child is a blessing, but he is sure that his court celebrates more his daughter than they did his son. Her arrival, while hardly a surprise, given how hard and tirelessly they worked to conceive her, had been challenging, as it would appear that divine figures had difficulties in producing scions, and the distance was hardly any help.

The nerves do not rack Dimitri as much as they did before Lambert arrived, though, even if they still turn his stomach as he watches his beloved wife go through the same unpleasant experiences of motherhood, with cravings, pains and the horrible delivery.

The sacrifices would be worth it, they were sure. After the rough patch of pregnancy, parenthood would be a breeze. Or so they thought when they looked to Lambert as an example, proving that, so far, neither of them had failed that disastrously at parenting. The small boy turning into young child that knew his manners and was devoted to his family and nation.

It is Lambert who whispers the vow. He stands over the crib of his baby sister, eyes wide in awe at the small bundle of blankets. He turns to his father; catching his attention from whatever conversation he was having with you.

“Ten fingers and ten toes.” Lambert whispers, pointing to Arabella’s hands and feet.

“Ten fingers and ten toes.” Dimitri states, the vow unleashed to the world and sealed with the very same kiss he had placed upon Lambert’s head all those years ago.

* * *

It finally arrived. The Great Tree Moon was finally rising on the night sky, and with it came the much awaited day for all noble parents in the realm, and the monarchs were no exception.

Today was the day when a member of the Blaiddyd dynasty would be making their way towards the officers’ academy in Garreg Mach. The large and rather comfortable coach in front of the Royal Family was already completely loaded and ready for departure.

Lambert looks towards the carriage before fixing his tear-filled gaze on his father, who is barely keeping it together himself. The teen boy was the first of his three children to be going away to school. He knew he would be emotional, but he just did not prepare himself for the pit of dread eating its way through his stomach lining.

Dimitri reaches out to ruffle his son’s hair. His first born, his eldest, the one who made him a father, who had moulded him into the man he is today. The heir to the throne.

“Write to your mother and I when you get settled.” The man commanded.

Lambert nods.

“As soon as I get to my room.” He replies, voice quiet.

“Try to enjoy yourself, and do not be too concerned with being class leader on your first year.” The Archbishop advises. “Remember, there is time to sow and time to harvest, time for fun and time for seriousness, and both of us will be there with you when the Blue Sea Moon come.”

A weight is lifted off of Lambert’s heart. He does not want to admit it, but he is scared, he is feeling the weight of Fódlan on his young shoulders. He is more than happy to be able to count on his mother’s wise advice while in school, and the breathing space his father was letting him have.

Dimitri pulls Lambert into a hug; unable to let his son go without one more. As they part, Dimitri pats Lambert on the shoulder, nodding towards the open carriage door, silently letting him know that it is okay now. It is okay to let go and leave their home.

Lambert does so with a wobbling lip, trying his best to project strength to the person he most admires in the world.

“Fingers and toes.” Dimitri shouts, not caring about the odd looks from the servants and knights assembled in the hall. These were his final verbal words to his son until the Rite of Rebirth. He would make sure they were those that he vowed over his cradle when he was only a few hours old.

Lambert sticks his head out of the carriage window.

“Fingers and toes!” He cries, throwing the promise back to his loving father.

The boy would return safe and sound. All ten fingers and all ten toes.


End file.
